Adolescence Post-Apocalypse
by Kount Xero
Summary: Takes place after the anime, where Utena wakes up with no recollection of who she is, or how she came to be so horribly maimed. She begins her uphill struggle to recover herself, which is when a mysterious stranger from her past emerges, and changes everything. (Mixed continuity, sort of.)
1. Prologue (Received a Kiss)

"_**Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"**_

_Author's Note: I have no idea if I made it, but here it is. The "Adolescence Post-Apocalypse" was more of a transitional piece in my mind. I opted to disregard "Adolescence Apocalypse" in all but the title, because I was more interested in that period between Utena's adolescence and adulthood that would come after the end of the initial series. I do retain one element that I find particularly striking from that, however, so in a way, this might be taken as an alternate continuity. It isn't very long at all, and went in a different direction than I had initially envisioned, but here it is. I chose to adopt a style that favored a good dose of symbolic elements and an insistence on vagueness about many things, as it fit my intentions. Just to note, the titles are lines borrowed from Amaran songs, and the drop-down menu chapters are the song titles. Hope you enjoy._

**Prologue  
****(I Received a Kiss from My Maker's Lips)**

She woke up without a name.

The ceiling was plain and white. It's somewhat rugged texture was the only thing that even betrayed its presence. The blankness of it, the nondescript sight of it mirrored her mind closely. As it had been then and many more times that she didn't recall, she had woken up without a name to that white ceiling.

She did have something to be called by, however. They called her 'girl.' Maybe that was her name – Girl. But that was more of an idea, more about things that pertained to other things; and those, she knew she'd know nothing about. Perhaps she had known, once. Back when she was whole, she might have known.

Or maybe that was their way of being polite. Girl, not yet Woman, stuck in the limbo of an out-of-context adolescence, between whoever she used to be, and whoever she was now, whoever that was supposed to be.

That was the strangest thing for her. She could talk. She remembered how to do things, things like eating politely, or trying to move, if just a little bit to help them change her bed pan, and asking how they were when she saw them. She was sure that she could walk, that she actually knew how to. She just couldn't move enough to test that notion just yet.

She remembered anecdotes about this and that. She knew a hundred stories, mostly fairy tales and about princes and princesses. She remembered revolutions. Crack the egg's shell – that was something that mattered, because if you didn't, the chick inside would die without being born (but the eggs they brought her to eat had the remains of dead chicks that never could crack the shell.)

All this, and she didn't remember her name. She didn't remember how old she was, where she had come from, if she had a family somewhere (though the mere mention of the word brought her a deep ache, deeper than most of her other aches.) She didn't know why she broke down into tears when she smelled roses. She couldn't remember what had happened to her that had ended her up in the Convent, bed-ridden for months, maybe years or maybe eternity.

They had said it was an accident that had made her what she was now: hideous and deformed. Scars lined every inch of her flesh, marking the passing of something she didn't remember; distorting her skin, covering her face, riddling her cheeks and chin and neck and eyes and arms and hands and feet and legs and breasts and every other place with lines upon lines, all of the same width. At least she had retained some sense of symmetry, she often mused.

Her pink hair wasn't cut boy-short because the nuns didn't know how to do it otherwise. It just didn't grow beyond that anymore.

Still, she considered herself rather lucky, all things considered. She could at least sit up by herself after what they had told her had been five months. It took a lot of effort, brought a lot of pain, but she could sit up. Her legs were a week shy of coming out of the casts, she had been told, but it'd be months and months before she could walk again... _if_ she walked again at all (although she was sure that she could.)

The sound of the double doors of the ward opening brought her to. She propped herself up on her elbows, causing the nun to quicken her steps to put down the tray she was carrying somewhere. To help Girl. But Girl hated needing that help, so she forced it. Her shoulders and traps began to scream as she adjusted herself. Her hands touched the pure white sheets (always pure white, without fail, even when she didn't see anyone change them) and her wrists sent sharp shivers down her spine. Her back protested against this change in alignment, assaulting her torso with a relentless torrent of agonizing needles.

_Like a thousand swords made of hate, _she always thought.

When she managed to sit up, the nun, her face obscured as it always was, came to her side. She gently placed the tray on her lap. Eggs, lentil soup, bread, plain rice, water, an apple. Smiling, Girl began to unwrap the napkin that was holding her utensils. She could do it without having to clench her teeth shut to keep from screaming.

The nun sat down to the adjacent bed. They always kept her company while she ate.

"Thank you." Girl said, "I know it's not enough, to just say that."

"Nonsense. You have never been a burden."

Without objection, Girl began with the soup. It was delicious. Everything was delicious now that she could eat by herself.

"It's delicious." She said, "As always."

"It's a meager meal, I know. We just don't have anything else."

"It's not like that. It's plenty. I don't even know how I'll ever repay you, so don't start."

"You don't have to repay us, Girl." the nun said, "We are just doing what we must. Nothing more. You don't owe us payment."

"If you say so." The Girl said, reluctant.

The nun reached for the Girl's bedside and turned on the small, old radio resting there. Girl smiled as she finished the soup – ah, yes, that time again.

There was a nameless radio show (_Have You Heard?_ would be a good title, Girl always thought, but it wasn't strictly a gossip talk-show) that came on ten minutes after a nun, like clockwork, brought her lunch.

After the fairly short jingle, a voice came through the speakers.

"_Have you heard? Have you heard?" _one of the hosts, a woman, asked.

"_**Have you heard the news?**__" _she continued, joined by her companion.

"_The search for the long-lost prince continues." _the second companion said.

Ah, a new chapter. _"The Long-Lost Prince"_ was an untitled storyline they had stuck to for some time now, or perhaps ever since Girl had started listening.

There was a brave, courageous and noble prince involved. Apparently, this guy had faced an enemy who held his princess captive. The prince had fought valiantly, but he had fought like princes are wont to do – nobly, honestly, cleanly. Utterly blind to the fact that his enemy could only be defeated by being more corrupt than him. The prince had lost the duel, and with it, had gotten lost himself. He had, however, managed to set the princess free, and she had gone looking for him. Unable to find him, she had then returned to the Evil Prince's kingdom. Girl didn't know why – to keep an eye on the Evil Prince? To slowly eat away at his lot from the inside until it collapsed? To hatch a conspiracy? The princess' motivations were unclear.

It was meaningless drivel to her, of course, but having nothing but time to think on her hands, Girl was following the story earnestly. It had become a rather pleasantly meaningless kind of drivel over the weeks.

"_Oh, the princess despairs still! If only there was a sign!"_

"_One of her companions has joined the search, though."_

"_How much longer will she endure the absence of her prince? With nobody looking, and everybody having looked everywhere, there seems to be no end in sight to the search!"_

"_If they had looked everywhere, the prince'd be found – like I said, one of her companions has an idea."_

"_The pretender, irredeemable, still plays his games and entertains himself with duels for his new bride! The duelists are but puppets in his hands, forced to fight for his entertainment!"_

"_They're not gladiators, you know."_

"_If only she could challenge him herself!"_

"_But girls shouldn't fight with swords."_

"_Her hands bound, she waits in her chambers, desolate, waiting for word to reach her! She has hope that this time, it will happen!"_

"_Didn't you say nobody was looking?"_

"_That's right! And when nobody's looking is when the magic happens!"_

"_That's what I've been saying all this time! Haven't you heard a word of it?"_

"_**Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard the news?"**_

With the show done, it switched to music. A piano piece that often served as the show's outro. The nun shut it off quicker than Girl could feel something stirring in her chest. The Girl finished her lunch quickly, thanked the nun, and watched her leave. She laid back down to face the white ceiling. She closed her eyes, perchance to let herself drift away.

There was a name on her lips, at the tip of her tongue, tasting divine.

* * *

She dreamt the forgotten dream, forgotten like everything else but coming to haunt her whenever she closed her eyes. The dream she had lived with in her new home.

Someone was drowning in the background.

"_Seeing you is like seeing myself in the past."_

The tune of dead horses, circling around the body of water.

"_I was like you, once."_

Ahead, the Rose Seal. Someone was almost drowned.

"_I thought persistence had merit."_

She recognized the sound.

"_That it was the best way to change the world."_

She remembered that it had followed her...

"_But just that alone cannot change anything."_

...it had followed her all the way down.

* * *

She jerked awake without a name.


	2. Karma in Flesh

"_**Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"**_

**One  
"We Are So Much Closer Now, We Keep Telling Ourselves; It Makes Us Whole or Hollow"**

She was learning to walk again.

There were two barres, standing slightly higher than her waist. Wood, but covered with a velvety substance that helped her grip it better. The length of the barres flanked the mat nailed to the ground, which was soft, but not shifty or slippery. The room had some other equipment, exercise equipment, most of which she had and would not have any use for.

Right now, she was looking at some point on the other edge of the mat. Twenty feet, the nun had said. Twenty feet might as well have been the distance to the edge of the world.

She was tied to a contraption that was hoist from the ceiling. It went under her thighs and strapped around her waist. It didn't lift her up, not by that much, but helped her stay above the ground if she so wished. Another aid. But this would be the first time she had tried to walk in months – after the cast, there had been the boot, and still, her feet were covered with bandages.

She looked down. The first thing she did was to wiggle her toes. She had been staring at her feet and wiggling her toes for the past week. Yes, her legs were there. Her brain recognized her legs, commanded them. She wasn't crippled. She could walk.

Then why wasn't it happening? It was simple locomotion – one foot in front of the other.

Easier said than done.

It wasn't the pain that shot up her entire body the moment she put more than half her weight down. That, she was almost used to by now, or so she kept telling herself. No, the pain was nothing. It was nothing at all compared to the first few months of sheer agony, when even screaming in pain had seemed too painful in itself.

It was just that her legs had barely moved.

"The human mind is fragile," the nun offered, "You can forget how to walk if you don't do it for long enough."

"How can you forget how to walk?"

"You know what they say about something being like riding a bicycle?" the nun said, crossing her arms, "It's not completely true. Once you've been off a bicycle for long enough, you have to learn it again. You learn faster than the first time around, but you learn it still. This is just like that, girl. You have to learn how to walk again."

"I'm telling my legs to move. They're not moving."

"Be patient. Try to remember what it was like."

She tried to remember. What had it been like to have the ground underneath her feet, to not have her heavily scarred legs hang like twigs, just as useless and thin, under her? Her arms were getting stronger from carrying the burden, but no matter what she did, her legs were two strips of mangled flesh to her.

Maybe that was what it had felt like, back when she could. Torture.

She clenched her teeth and tried again.

* * *

It took her four days to move, but move she did. It was clumsy, without a hint of balance, no different than a toddler trying to cross the distance in a new way, but with far less grace. She only made it three steps. She got stuck on the third step for another three days, before finally clenching her teeth and deciding to revolutionize her world by taking a fourth step forward, maybe even a fifth. She supposed that she was power-hungry now, a tyrant, without any point that she deemed worthy of stopping at. She cleared the distance in a protracted struggle, and when she finally got to the end of the stretch, she decided to make a lap of it. Then began her quest to make a full lap, no help from the harness, just the barres that she used for balance.

When she made the lap, she upped the ante. After two months of contained one-upmanship, her legs started to feel like legs again. Every time she stepped from the wheelchair to the mat, looked down and wiggled her toes, they looked more like what legs should look like... should never have looked like.

She kept at it, until the day came when she began doing laps without the barres, but just crutches.

* * *

"I want to go outside."

"Girl, the courtyard is just... soil. It's rugged, uneven. Better not to force it just yet."

"I want to go outside." She repeated, "I need to see the sky."

"Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?"

She shook her head.

The nun sighed.

"Sit." She said, pointing at the wheelchair, "I'll roll you there. No objections."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

As Girl was rolled through the convent, she felt something that she only felt when the Long-Lost Prince segment came on the radio. She was expectant, curious, ecstatic. The Convent's interior, now somewhat familiar to her, didn't excite her this much when she had first seen it. Tiled ground, stone walls, all gray and colorless, lifeless and functional, barely lived-in. She supposed she was the only patient they had had in quite a while.

When Girl saw the double doors approaching as the nun pushed her wheelchair, she felt her grip on the armrests turn her knuckles white. Just outside those arched, wooden doors, was a world. The source of the breeze she had felt when the window of the ward had caught it, where the sound of the rain and scent of fresh soil would come from. Outside. Such a simple word. So full of meaning. If in here was a coffin, if she was meant to have died, then this would be her resurrection – from the coffin and into the world again.

Well, almost.

* * *

The sky was drab and gray. There were no clouds, at least none visible. Old and decayed, the branches surrounded the courtyard, itself just an opening in front of the Convent, like guardians of the dead. Girl saw that the trees stretched on far as her eyes could see, maybe into eternity,even. The dull, dim natural light painted the intertwined branches of the bare naked trees in dark shadows. Immediately ahead, she could see an opening in the tree line, leading to a rather narrow path. At the end of the path was a playground. There was a carousel, a see-saw, a slide, two swingsets, some other things she didn't know about – all seeped in rust, mud and decay. The once-cheerful paint on any of them had long since peeled off, leaving behind only the impression of a poorly-kept autopsy slab.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

"Girl, I..."

"No. I want to get to that playground."

"This is hardly good for you."

"If I don't push to better myself, I will never be better. Just let me. I am grateful for you watching over me, but I have to do this."

The nun sighed again.

"The playground it is."

The nun helped Girl stand and passed her the crutches.

She touched God the first time she felt the ground under her bare feet.

* * *

The crutches were putting almost painful amount of pressure on her armpits, enough that she felt them tugging at her breasts. Using them, she could take the most pathetic parody of steps forward, sort of shifting her body weight around, trying to keep the crutches firmly planted on the ground. The nun had been right, the ground was uneven. Patches of it were soft and her foot sank in – a slight rotation of her ankle it didn't take kindly to. Five steps in and sweat was pouring out of her every pore. The roots of her hair were soaking wet already. Her right arm, which she barely felt on a good day, was already demanding a rest period – it was shaking badly. Her left arm, which she didn't feel at all, was shaking as well. She decided not to make a beeline for the playground just yet.

Just standing on her own would be enough for the day.

* * *

It didn't end. The playground was her new destination, her new goal. It was Heaven, in the way it was defined in the Convent. You only got there through adversity, by being tested to your absolute limit and not breaking.

So she went.

She went further every day, even if further was a single step. The closer she got, the more she became afraid. The playground-heaven was the only thing out here, she was told. What would happen if she reached it? It was close enough that she could taste it, but wouldn't she have removed the one thing that moved her forward?

Be that as it may, Girl knew that she had nowhere else to go, either. Behind her was the Convent, hell and purgatory in one. Ahead, was the playground, heaven, and the end of her quest. She could go more than halfway into the narrow path now. The trees that rose on either side of it had grown roots above the ground and walking was especially difficult there. Her body didn't like it. Her body could go to hell.

Closer and closer until, one day, she woke up without a name and knew that she would be reaching the playground on that day. She wolfed down her breakfast, stretched and grabbed her crutches. She trotted along the corridors to find the doors slightly ajar, left open just for her. She smiled and moved along. The steps down to the ground were easy. The first stretch was easy. The narrow path, too, was easier than she remembered, as she knew exactly where to place the crutches, where to step, and where not to. She moved through it with memorized skill and abject determination.

So focused was she on moving forward that Girl didn't notice that he was sitting there until she cleared the final step of the path and looked up and ahead to see her heaven.


	3. Faith Healer

"_**Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"**_

**Two  
"I Always Wanted It To Be Something Different; I Never Wanted to be Something Other than Me"**

She got the feeling that he was important to her, somehow.

It wasn't familiarity, exactly. It was familiarity with familiarity. Sweating, breathing heavy, barely standing with her crutches, she looked at him. He had shoulder-length red hair, somehow shiny in the dismal weather of what she thought was a perpetual late Autumn, and the strands were straight as razors. His face, smooth features balancing the angular and the rounder, was handsome. His attire was rather strange, she thought. It was a militaristic get-up, like a ceremonial uniform. Black, stiff cloth; red accents with white stitching. He didn't have medals or anything like that, and his epaulets were hollow, but still. The color of it, the blend of the black and the red, it suited him.

It also made her aware of the fact that she was standing there in nothing but red tight shorts and a tank top.

Before she could speak, he turned to look at her, as if he had just noticed her there. His bright blue eyes pierced through the distance and she saw something stir in them as he looked her dead in the eye.

He sighed, wistfully. He was still for a moment. Then, he scooted over. She saw that he was sitting on the caterpillar – joined metal barrels, each painted a different color.

An invitation? A challenge?

Well, she had to rest anyway.

* * *

They sat in silence for a while. She was tongue-tied. She had many questions for this stranger, but she hadn't talked to anyone but the nuns for months and months and then, only about things pertaining to herself... she felt strange, sitting in the decaying playground with a man whom had come out of nowhere. She stared at her feet. Dirty, soil caked between her toes. She was self-conscious, perhaps for the first time since she had woken up without a name. The nuns had bathed her, cleaned her in more ways than she wished were possible. She hadn't worn anything at all before she could sit up. Easier that way, she had guessed - they wouldn't have to change her clothes then.

The tight shorts and the tank top were the reconstructions of whatever tattered rags she had come in with, riding the gurney into some kind of eternity from where she was dying. She knew that there was also a jacket that they hadn't managed to reproduce, but had mended. She wished she had it on.

"Hey-" he began.

"Hey-" she said at the same time.

Utena shirked from it. Better let him speak first. He was the guest, after all.

"After you." She said.

"How... I'm sorry, this is going sound like a stupid question, but... how are you feeling?"

Girl raised an eyebrow. Really? Wasn't it obvious? Her legs were aching something fierce, her ankles felt like they were trying to detach themselves sinew by sinew, her back was in agony from the way she had forced the pace; and on top of that, she was sitting next to a man she had never seen before. A man evocative of vague, unpronounced memories that she found painful. Must not have been very nice memories, then.

But he was waiting for an answer. His blue eyes were waiting for their due.

"Not complaining." She said, finally.

"You never do." He said, sending a shockwave through her, "How are you really feeling?"

"Who the hell are you?" she blurted out, "I don't mean to be rude, but who are you? How did you find this place? Where did you come from?"

He seemed to be taken aback, perhaps by her barrage of questions, perhaps by the sharp tone in her voice. Pain made her angry, angry at her body for making so much of it, angry at not being able to make it stop.

But he smiled and she froze where she sat. It wasn't joy or amusement that she saw, but sadness, more than could be expressed.

"My name is Touga Kiryuu." He said.

Then, he waited. For recognition, for the confirmation of something. She had nothing to give.

"I'm sorry." She said, "I don't even know my own name, so I can't tell you. The nuns here call me Girl, so you can, too. If you want."

There, again. That sadness. Who was this guy?

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Some months." She said, "I don't really know. I was in an accident, hurt pretty bad. I'm sure you can tell by the crutches."

"Utena, I-"

"Is that my name?"

His brow creased. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

"Excuse me..?"

"Utena. Is that my name?"

Touga nodded.

"Utena." She said, trying to see if the sound of it was familiar. It wasn't. She wondered if it would be again. Like riding a goddamn bicycle. "I am Utena."

"Utena Tenjou." He said, "That's your name."

Tears stung her eyes, threatening to overwhelm. But she had cried too much before that moment, in the moments leading up to that moment. She had none left in her, or so she quickly told herself.

"Does that mean..." she tried to keep her voice from shaking, "...you know me?"

"I..." he paused. What could he say that wouldn't break her like he was broken? The truth seemed too heartless an answer, and yet - "I knew you."

"Tell me." She said, looking away, "Tell me about me."

* * *

He did. He told her everything he knew, held nothing back. What they were, once and then almost again. The day he almost drowned, like he drowned every night in that dream, the sound of his passing following her down. About Ohtori Academy. About the times they had spent together, as friends, as an arranged couple, as enemies.

He told her about those little details that she knew were small fragments of herself. How she wore boys' uniforms. That he loved the way her long hair swayed when she was walking; the hair that wouldn't be long again. He told her of the day he had found her in a coffin, waiting to die with her parents, back when he was just a child.

She couldn't even mourn them now. She didn't remember them, and something told her she wouldn't, even if she hadn't lost who she was. She now knew that she had no family, or just no family left.

He told her the things that he knew that she did not, that she had feared for a while now that she never would learn. The things he didn't, that he couldn't say, she didn't ask about.

"Then who am I, now? Who am I to you?" Utena asked instead.

He smiled.

"You are my Prince." He said, "My long-lost Prince."

Utena couldn't help but burst out laughing. She couldn't stop herself. She knew that it was probably rude, that he was watching, but the way he had said it...

"Like that..." she tried to breathe, trying not to let her body rattle around by the coming chuckles, "...like that radio play?"

"Radio play?" he said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Never mind." She said, still chuckling. She found that she had forgotten, like all other things it seemed, how good it felt to laugh. She could feel her chest swelling with gratitude to this stranger, this Touga Kiryuu, for giving her that.

"And that's where I am now." he said, "Ohtori University. Sophomore year."

"You don't look like a student."

"Is that so?"

"You look more like an aristocrat. The wealthy and the powerful you read about in scripture."

"Aren't those always neck-deep in sin?"

"Yeah, they are. Are you?"

"Depends on what my sin is, I guess."

"Well is that-"

"Girl!"

Utena and Touga glanced at the narrow path to see one of the nuns running towards them, hands glued to the lifted hem of her skirt. Touga stood up then and dusted off his uniform.

"Well, it seems that our time has come to an end." He said.

Utena felt a familiar feeling start to claw at her. Despair. But they had only just met, and he knew everything, and he was, she had to admit, rather nice, and someone other than the nuns to talk to... not that she wasn't grateful for their company as it was, but he...

"Don't worry." He said, one hand gently trailing a rather deep scar on her left cheek, "I'll come back."

He walked into the treeline and disappeared just as the nun made it. Utena took the crutches, positioned herself, clenched her teeth, ignored the pain and stood up.

"You were gone for so long, Girl." The nun said, trying to catch her breath, "We feared you might've collapsed somewhere."

"You needn't have worried. I'd crawl back if that ever happened."

"You gave us quite a fright, Girl."

"Utena." She said.

"What?"

"My name is Utena."


	4. Atropine

"_**Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"**_

**Three  
"Another Story and You Could've Been a Heroine and It Could Have Been a Fairytale"**

Utena made it her mission to use the perilous narrow path leading to the decaying playground as her exercise route. That way, she could make it to heaven several times a day. Each day, she went outside, hoping that when she reached the playground, he'd be there.

He wasn't. He didn't come back.

Over time, the crutches gave way to the cane. She learned to walk once again, and took to roaming the grounds around the Convent, discovering its boundaries, exploring the nooks and crannies that had formed over the many years it seemed to have stood. She learned that the Convent itself was indeed ringed completely by the dead trees and their intertwined, thorny branches. Just to see where she could have been brought in from (which was another way of saying where he could have come in from), she spent days taking brief forays into the forest. She never ventured too far, careful never to lose sight of the convent, but no matter where she went, in which direction, there seemed to be no end in sight. She didn't dare risk going far enough to get herself lost, unsure if the nuns would find her a second time, or if they'd even bother.

Thus Utena returned to familiar grounds, head down and something stirring inside her. Longing for things she couldn't remember, that she hated longing for. What was the point? It was like having a song stuck in your head, a song you couldn't remember and couldn't ask or learn about. The irritating splinter in her mind, turning with gusto, kept telling her that there was a collection of things somewhere, maybe in another place, that used to be who she was.

Used to be.

Now, they were just more, this time invisible, scars for the monster she saw in the mirror every time she looked at it.

* * *

Finally the day came when the cane, too, went away. The strange thing about that was that she had gotten up in the morning, went to the bathroom to wash up as usual... and only when she had returned to her room to get dressed that she had seen the cane propped up against her bed. It was just standing there like a forgotten relic, having outlived its relevance.

She looked down, at her feet. She wiggled her toes. Yes, she was standing, at last, without the support. Standing on her own. She got dressed with a smile on her face, all the while curiously glancing at the cane, as if it would come to life and strike her, tell her that she was just a stupid girl (stupid, stupid Utena) for ever daring to think she'd walk on her own.

That didn't happen. When it didn't, Utena hurried out of the room, enjoying the sensation of having her weight supported by nothing but herself. She found her way to the doors leading to the courtyard and got out. Not even the monochrome skies and the dead trees could kill the joy she felt at being able to just _be_ at that point.

On the first step down, however, her joy was smothered by a sudden, crippling pain. She realized that, silly her, she had tried to walk down like a normal person would. She wasn't normal. She was miles and miles from normal and doubted she'd ever get to be there again.

So she descended carefully, one step at a time, determined still to repeat her earlier feat of reaching the playground, this time without aid.

* * *

With the recovery of her legs, Utena found herself restless in a matter of days. Used to be that going anywhere, even to the bathroom was enough of a journey that it didn't matter she was traversing the vast expanse of ten feet. But now, she stood on her own, wiggled her toes (just to make sure they were there) and two columns of scarred flesh could get her where she wanted to go.

The question then became: where _did _she want to go?

Utena took to exploring the Convent's interior. She first discovered that she couldn't walk for extended periods of time. She began mapping out the place she had seen very little of during her months there, ten minutes at a time. She found the Convent plain and blank. The patterns on the tiles, the high arches, the lines on the columns all seemed to fade into an indistinct mess, belonging to nowhere.

She would often come across the nuns' rooms and stumble in. Their faces obscured, they'd ask her, gently, if she needed anything. Utena would shake her head and blush. She felt like a child in those moments.

Quickly, and even quicker as she regained her stamina, the Convent ceased being remotely interesting. Utena ventured outside once more. On the day that she did, she expected to find the siege of trees, the dull gray skies, the lifeless, decaying playground. Those things were there, to be sure, but they weren't the only.

Touga was waiting for her.

Utena noticed that he was carrying a pair of thin, long, black cases in his right hand.

* * *

"Hello." He said with a smile, "I see you're past the crutches."

Utena stood there, hands folded behind her back. She wasn't sure whether she should be angry, curious, relieved, or tense. It seemed like she was all three in that moment, but she was certain that her face didn't give anything away, as he was stuck glaring at her.

"Hi." She said, "You came back."

"I said I would."

"What took you so long?"

His face darkened.

"I got lost."

"All this time?"

"Yes."

"You're serious."

Utena sighed and sat down on the steps. Touga joined her, setting the cases down beside him. When he glanced at her, she felt the pang of self-consciousness again. A tank top and tight shorts, and scars upon scars. She wondered just how disgusted he was at her disfigurement. She didn't know, as he didn't say anything.

"So, where do you live?" Utena asked.

"Where do I live?"

"You know all about me, even things I don't know. But I only know your name. It's not fair."

"I inherited my parents' home." Togua said, "I live there with my sister."

"What's your sister like?"

"A pain in the ass." Touga chuckled, "Don't tell her I said that. Truth is, she's a wonderful person. I just wished she knew that sometimes."

"But where is your home?"

"Ohtori City." He said, "It's not that far from here, but it's still quite a ways away."

"Is it nice there?"

"I suppose. But everywhere's the same, don't you think?"

Utena raised an eyebrow.

"Because it doesn't matter where you are," Touga continued, "So long as you are somewhere."

Utena didn't know how to take that. She knew that she certainly was somewhere, but she wasn't sure _where._ Ohtori City (was that what he had said?) seemed to be more grounded than the anonymous Convent that had been generous enough to house her. Yes, she had shelter, but she didn't have a home.

"Are you going to leave again?"

"Yes. But I will be back."

"I'll hold you to that."

Touga smiled.

"You know what?" he said, "Let's play Prince."

Utena half-smiled, dumbstruck. Was he serious?

"What?" he asked, "That's why I brought these." He pointed at the cases.

"To play a game?"

"We used to play it all the time." He said, "The Prince and the would-be usurper. The revolutionary."

No matter what else, she couldn't deny that she was curious... and afraid. She didn't know where that second one had come from, but then again, when did she ever?

"What are the rules?" she asked.

* * *

The rules, it turned out, were strange. He had these plastic roses, one of which he pinned to her chest. The scenario would be simple: she would be the Prince, and he would be the (would-be) Usurper. They would duel (or play-duel, she figured) and the duel wasn't to the death – it was until one knocked the rose off the other's chest or someone yielded. Whoever won, would inherit the prince's castle, which, Utena guessed, the Convent would have to be substituted for. Same difference.

"But why am I the Prince?" she asked, "Girls can't be princes."

"Sure they can."

"I don't think so. I'd rather be a revolutionary, anyway."

"Why?"

"This is not my castle."

Touga didn't argue. He pinned his own rose, red, to his handkerchief pocket. As Utena was only wearing her black tank top, he opted to pin hers low on one of the straps. He then couched and opened the cases, pulling out two bokken, both in pristine shape. As soon as he presented to her with one, a sharp pain shot through her body – from her back towards her stomach. She doubled over, barely holding back a scream. She opted for a snarl through clenched teeth as Touga carefully placed one hand on her back. She didn't look at him, knowing full well what he'd look like.

"I'm alright." She said, "This happens a lot."

"We can just sit down, if you wish."

"No." she said, "This pain is nothing. Let's play the game."

"Are you sure?"

Utena forced a smile. The pain wasn't excruciating by any means, but it was too familiar... too cold.

"Afraid you'll lose?"

Touga took his cue and took his place.

* * *

Utena found out that she wasn't very good at this. It wasn't the difficulty she had moving still – her body could do very basic things, but her muscles weren't too strong. The hollow body of the bokken felt like a sack of bricks. Swinging it required too many muscles to move in perfect coordination, and as such, she was awkward, jerky and was certain she looked like a little girl imitating the games she thought adults were playing. She felt like she was swinging a stick and making believe it was a sword – a hopeless revolutionary facing an all powerful prince with no real skill.

Touga, for his part, didn't do much of anything. He mostly evaded her sorry little blows, only making contact once or twice. Not too long in, Utena could feel that familiar ache starting to spread across her body. Her arms were all stiff, her shoulders and upper back were cramping up, and the roots of her hair were already drenched.

Utena then tried her hand at a halfway decent strike, a last-ditch effort. She pulled the bokken back and jabbed it forward. Touga gently deflected it and with one move, brought the tip of his bokken right on top of her rose.

But he didn't take it.

Utena's hands spasmed for an instant and her bokken dropped. Touga picked it up. He put the weapons away and took off his rose. Utena waited for him to take hers too, but again, he didn't.

"Keep it." He said, "I'll be back for it."

A sudden fear washed over Utena, and she found herself wishing desperately for him to not leave. _Stay_, she wanted to say, her own thoughts surprising her with their urgency, _stay with me._

"I'll be back in two days." He said.

"Yeah, right." She said.

"I promise. I'm a man of my word."

He left without another word. Utena went back inside to tune into the radio, perchance to find something interesting.

The Prince's story wasn't on. She shut it off and tried to sleep.

* * *

Utena's first thought the next morning was push-ups and pull-ups. She would need to build up some upper body strength, she figured – she already was at a disadvantage by being (_and why do I have to be?_) a girl. Besides, she knew she had forgotten it – she had built up her legs and lower back, but not her arms. So after her breakfast, she turned the radio to a dead channel and got down to it.

She managed only two push-ups, and on the third, her body started screaming at her to stop. She paused. Maybe regular push-ups were too much to start with. It was her breasts, she figured, the scarred flesh making them all the more excessive, that added the extra weight.

Utena recalled walking – from nothing at all to forgetting the cane. She went about doing assisted push-ups and pull-ups with a chair, where she used the chair to raise herself up to the conveniently spacious frame of her door and lowered herself down. It all took about ten minutes, left her drenched in sweat, the muscles used aching and with a sense that it would take some time to successfully become the prince who'd defend his castle.

The radio flared to life just as she sat down on the bed, with the familiar introductory music of the show she had been waiting to catch.

"_Have you heard? Have you heard?"_

"_**Have you heard the news?**__"_

"_The search for the long-lost prince continues."_

"_Not anymore! The prince has been found!"_

"_Hooray! Let the kingdom rejoice! Let there be much celebration and feasting!"_

"_But there is a slight problem."_

"_Wha? But the fireworks are already lit!"_

"_The prince has been lost and isolated for so long, that he can't just come out of hiding and join the world again."_

"_Fireworks! Fireworks!"_

"_The prince must be helped, if he is ever to return. Alas, such is the fate of those who have lost their way."_

"_Somebody call the fire department!"_

"_All the prince needs now is a sword," _the sound of a "sword" being pulled out of its sheathe followed, _"And, en-guarde!"_

"_Hey! You cut the fuses! We're saved! The kingdom is safe again!"_

"_The kingdom's been safe since the prince has been found! Haven't you heard?"_

"_**Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard the news?"**_

"_Wait, did you say found?"_

The broadcast cut away to the piano piece, and Utena turned off the radio.


	5. Revolution Without Arms

"_**Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"**_

**Four  
"Choose Your Revolution Without Arms - We've Got a War to Fight, Can't You See?"**

As her body was trained, often ruthlessly by a self-imposed regimen, Utena began to claw her way back to what she knew to be strength. The nuns had a concoction that they had taught her to make. It made her woozy, was very high in alcohol content, but it numbed the pain after she had pushed her body to the very edge, just shy of breaking something. She often began shaking off stiffness in her muscles, warming up to the workouts, and then drilled herself as hard as she could. Most days, she just ended up on the steps of the Convent, exhausted, biting down on her scarred, ugly arm to keep herself from screaming.

The once-legendary path to the playground was now just a short interlude in her daily jogs. She would go in, circle around the playground, and then return. She had memorized every single step of the uneven path, knew every tree branch that lined her path. All-in-all, however, she knew that the playground had lost its allure. It was as if she could now see it for what it was, because she wasn't bound to it: the playground was the ruins if a kingdom. She often wondered about the children that might've played there in the past. She doubted that the faceless nuns ever had.

She wondered if she herself had. She always made a mental note to ask Touga about it, but always forgot.

* * *

Togua continued to come back. Every few days, she would stretch, warm up with some body-weight exercises, and grab her bokken. If the prince's story wasn't on the radio, and it rarely was anymore for some reason (though she knew that the prince was still stuck, wherever he had gotten lost, and his most noble knight was trying to coerce him to return,) she always made it out just in time to see him emerge from the tree line, carrying his weapon and bringing a pleasant smile with him.

He began teaching her how to fight, how to duel. Utena, after clearing the initial stupor, found that she actually not only rather liked dueling, but that she was good at it. She was nowhere near as good as Touga, of course, whom she always had to chide for letting her land a blow, or letting her come close to winning. He never _let _her win, of course: they had had to replace her rose twice, but his was still the same one he had started with.

When they were done fighting, she'd be drenched in sweat, and Touga would notice that she was in pain before she could even lament the escape of a whimper. They often sat down on the steps and Touga told her stories. Utena always listened intently enjoying his company. His stories were most entertaining. There was one where a special curry sauce made two people, best of friends (or possibly more) switch bodies. That one had made her laugh so hard she had to try and stop because of back pain.

She asked him things. Things about herself. Things about him. Things about Ohtori City, about Ohtori University. Things about princes and castles and eternity. He answered when he could. He told her about herself, he didn't tell her about him. He described Ohtori City as little he could and said he didn't know much about eternity, but maybe one day he would see what it was.

Touga always left after their conversation reached some sort of a natural end, leaving her aching, worn out and hungry. She returned to her room, comforted by knowing that he would be there again and that this time, she had almost defeated him. She had almost caused a revolution.

Almost. Maybe some other day.

* * *

The dreams never left her alone. Every night, it was that same, haunting carousel and words that made her feel like she had been stabbed with a thousand swords. The smell of blood, alcohol and roses was everywhere.

"Seeing you is like seeing myself in the past."

_But who were you, _she wanted to ask, _who did you use to be? Did I know you then?_

"I was like you, once."

_But what was I like, _she wanted to ask, _was I truly like you, or you, me? How do you know that you were?_

"I thought persistence had merit."

_Why can't I persist, _she wanted to ask, _why am I not made to last? Why can't I withstand? If I can, why won't it mean anything?_

"That it was the best way to change the world."

_Is that what a revolution is, _she wanted to ask, _is that what a revolution should be? Why can't I be a revolutionary? Why can't I revolutionize the world?_

"But just that alone cannot change anything."

_But why can't I, _she wanted to ask, she always, always wanted to ask, _why can't I change it? Am I not strong enough? Am I not good enough?_

The music of the carousel would start to fade then, and in the distance, she could hear a car tearing down the road.

_Tell me..._

She wanted to ask, because she always knew, always felt, and always, forever wanted to ask...

_...what is eternity?_

* * *

She awoke with a name, but without an answer. Her first thought, every morning since she had learned she was Utena and Utena was she, was that she didn't know what eternity was. She had never seen it.

These days, she doubted it even existed.

What could be eternal? Her parents hadn't been. Her old life hadn't been, and this new one surely wasn't. She had ended once already.

Pain, maybe. But then again, the pain she felt every day, clawing at her body from the inside, wasn't forever. It'd be with her all her life, but it wouldn't survive her.

Utena remembered the dead horses, spinning in their merry circle; their glazed-over, polished eyes staring vacantly at the scenery. She shivered.

She sat up. With one hand, she rubbed her eyes, and with the other, reached for the radio, just to see. Maybe the damned prince's story could cheer her up.

As if waiting for her, the introductory jingle emanated from the speaker.

"_Have you heard? Have you heard?"_

"_**Have you heard the news?**__"_

"_We interrupt this program for a special broadcast!"_

"_It's war! It's war, I tell you!"_

"_The prince is willing to return, but he faces one last obstacle – a nemesis. A mortal enemy!"_

"_You magnificent bastard, I've read your book!"_

"_If he wants to, he can stay. He can be imprisoned by his own free will. He can still surrender without a fight and resign to his fate!"_

"_Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!"_

The baying of hounds followed.

"_But if the prince chooses to fight, then he has a chance to return to his princess!"_

"_Once more unto the breach, dear friends!"_

"_Ahh, this is unbearable! What will the prince do? Can he overcome his enemy? Does he have enough in him to fight for his freedom?"_

"_Release the hounds!"_

"_I can't take this suspense! Well, I say the prince must fight! This'll be his revolution!"_

"_The dogs have our scent! We must run!"_

"_Wait, you did remember to put them on a leash this time, right?"_

"_Erm... leash?"_

"_It's dangerous to let wild dogs run around without a leash! Haven't you heard?"_

"_**Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard the news?"**_

That same piano piece that usually followed came on. Immediately, Utena could feel her insides beginning to twist up. Maybe it was the dream, maybe it was the story, but she decided to listen to it this time. It was a pretty melody, perfect in every way imaginable, yet something about the way the keys resonated made her think of emptiness. Of the void that she now felt in her (mangled, scarred) chest.

Once more for old time's sake, Utena cried like she had cried for months, lying in that same bed, in knowing that agony was eternal.

* * *

After her breakfast, Utena returned to her room to stretch. She then grabbed her bokken, pinned her rose to her chest, and walked outside.

Touga was waiting for her. She smiled. There was something in the air on that particular day, something charging the dull gray skies with an electric feeling. The slightly warm breeze smelled of roses to her, but this time, she didn't cry.

Utena took a deep breath and then she knew.

Today would be the day she would beat him.

* * *

Touga greeted her in earnest as she descended the steps. She grinned at him. It made him flinch, it made his face contort into an expression of pure concern. His blue eyes were filled with emotion, emotion so clear and so present that she wondered if he could feel it, too – if he could feel that he would be defeated.

"Hello." He said, "Hello, Utena."

"Hey."

"I see that you're ready."

"Always."

Touga frowned. Utena raise an eyebrow. What was he, a sore loser before the duel had even begun?

He held out his hand.

"What?"

"You won't be using that." Touga said.

"What? You mean we're not-"

"If it is what you want, we'll duel."

"What is this?" Utena asked, "Why're you all serious?"

"Utena..." something in the tone of his voice gave her pause, "...stay."

"What?"

"Stay here. I'll come. Every day, you'll find me here. I'll tell you everything. Every day, I'll tell you. Stay, and I'll make you happy."

Utena had to admit that she hadn't spared much thought for what would happen after she had made that final, revolutionary leap and defeated him. She had thought about it from time to time, but hadn't dwelled on it much. She had guessed that when she defeated him, she'd have completed her recovery, and would be free to go wherever she wanted to go.

There was a world out there that he was a part of. She wanted to walk that world. She had come this far, from trying to make her toes wiggle to dueling Touga. She had clawed her way back from the grave, climbed out of her coffin, and she refused to go back.

"Or," Touga said, as if sensing her thoughts, "Challenge me. If you defeat me, then you can come with me."

"I won't stay. I can't."

"Then say it."

Utena took a deep breath.

"I challenge you."

"I accept."

* * *

Touga pinned his rose to his chest as Utena put her bokken down. Touga opened the two cases he had brought with him. Utena whistled. He had brought prop swords this time. Perfect for the day. His own, he set aside; it was a longsword, two cutting edges. The handle was engraved with intricate knots that flowed through one another. He stabbed it into the ground and Utena heard how sharp it was. Part of her was afraid. Her scars were itching, her entire body was itching. It didn't want to be cut again, stabbed again.

But her thoughts smothered those concerns. No, today was the day. Today, the revolutionary would overthrow the prince.

The second case held her sword. It was a bit longer than his, a bit thinner. It was more like a rapier with a golden handle, which snaked around the hilt itself. There was a ruby, scratched and worn, at the bottom of the hilt, and the hand-guard featured an equally worn emerald. It was showy, in the regal kind of way, with the small amount of filigree on the blade completing the picture.

Utena's hand moved by itself and she slid her fingers along the length of the blade. After she passed the halfway mark, her scarred fingertips felt a small crack in the metal. It was shallower than the scars on her body, but circled around the blade, telling her that once, this sword had been broken. It was whole again, but would always carry that mark.

Utena smiled as something in her stirred.

_This is perfect._

"How many times have we done this..?" she asked Touga as she weighed the sword.

"I lost count."

"It feels like the first time."

"Yes..." Utena saw Touga's jawline flex, just for a second, "...yes, it does."

"Well, then. That's that."

Utena took the stance Touga had taught her, a fencing variation. She held the sword with one hand. When she decided it was too heavy, she shifted and mirrored Touga's opening stance.

"_En guarde!"_

* * *

They danced. Utena could feel the tremors and the aches clawing their way up from her ankles to her waist after the first few blows, but she ignored it. She shut her pain in a box and sent it away. While Touga was taller, had a farther reach and was more skilled, Utena was simply on fire. With the blind fervor and the volatile fury of a true revolutionary, she cried havoc and matched him, blow for blow. They pushed and pulled, orbiting around one another, their eyes not on the swords but on each other. In the grim silence of the small courtyard, the sound of blades clashing echoed in the air.

* * *

_Rise._

Utena slipped under Touga's swipe, and use it to go on the offensive. Touga looked surprised: the bulging vein on the side of her forehead, the sweat that was pouring out of every pore on her body, the guttural grunts she let out with every stroke told him that she was in agony. Yet there she was, so strong, stronger than he remembered.

Touga managed to leap backwards, putting some distance in between them. He knew he could win if he kept her on the defensive, but if she controlled the duel, she would have the day.

_Revolt._

Utena was a gracious, vibrant blur. She closed the distance quickly and refused to play it his way: she felt fire in her veins, both from the pain and from the intense focus she kept trained on the duel to dull it down. The sword was heavy in her hands, and she was tired, and she ached, and she hurt, and she wanted, more than anything in the world, to lay down her sword and die, right there at his feet. But she carried on, aiming squarely for his rose, distracting him with improvised slashes and thrusts that made her shoulders crack and her neck feel like someone had stuck a jagged needle in just to twist it.

Touga parried. Utena rewound the blow and knew that this would be her last move. Her strength had faded, and she was at her limit, but in order to defeat him, in order to win this duel, she knew she had to push herself past it. She screamed as she thrust her sword forward - a mighty roar that shook the dead branches of the trees bearing witness.

Touga half-turned to avoid the move, but as his muscles executed it, he saw it coming.

The pointy end of Utena's sword cut through the air, vibrating with her scream, imbued with everything that she was in that moment. As Touga rotated, inch by inch, he saw it in her eyes...

_...revolution._

* * *

Red petals scattered into the air. The Convent's bell began to toll then, sending an eerie reverberation throughout the landscape, announcing the victor.


	6. Ode

"_**Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"**_

**Five  
"I am All That You Knew That I Could Be"**

Silence.

In the absence of sound, the small noises faded out, and left only the sound of her labored breathing. Her face and clothes were drenched in sweat, her hands, arms and legs were shaking. She sunk the sword into the ground and leaned on it to keep standing. She could barely breathe through the pain, she could barely see, barely hear. The bell had stopped, leaving them to her breath.

"Wuh-wuhh-whell..." she gasped, trying to breathe enough to speak, "I win."

Touga dropped his sword. Utena saw something come over him, a spell. His face was unreadable, but his eyes told a different story. He was standing there, silent. His gaze dropped and he saw the petals on the dry soil, red like blood, scattered.

Slowly, very slowly, he pulled the remains of his rose out of his breast pocket and flicked it away. He looked at Utena. Her knees were wobbly, but she hadn't fallen. She had barely made it, but she had won.

"Yes. You won." He said. Utena raised an eyebrow. He sounded incredibly resigned.

Touga began unbuttoning his jacket.

"Wh-what are you doing!?" Utena asked.

Touga stopped four buttons down. He stuck his hand inside and retrieved something from the jacket's inner pocket. Without buttoning his jacket back up, he came to her side and demonstrated it.

It was a ring. Sterling silver, gleaming even in the dull gray semi-light. Utena saw a rose signet on it. A torrent of emotions coursed through her upon the sight, and she was sure it was exhaustion. It was exhaustion and longing and sorrow and all the things that she had felt, one way or the other, ever since she had woken up without a name, only more potent than she had known before.

He gently pried one of her hands away from the sword's handle, and put the ring on. It was a perfect fit.

It was a disgusting sight. Her finger was a sham, a bad parody of ring fingers, and the ring was pristine. Yet some part of her was curious as to why it felt like it belonged there.

Maybe because it could, she wanted to say. She didn't.

"This ring is your way out." He said, his face serious, "If you follow it, you'll find your way."

"Out to where?" she asked.

"Ah, yes."

Touga reached into his jacket pocket again. He pulled out a small, square envelope this time, laced with the smell of roses. Utena took it

Touga retrieved his sword. He went back to its case and placed his sword insid. He buttoned up his jacket.

Utena panicked.

* * *

He was leaving again, and this time, she knew, he would leave for good. She would have nobody left in this godforsaken place, she'd have to go back to the nuns calling her 'Girl', she'd go back to that stupid radio drama; to walking around the Convent and wondering what was behind the woods, but never daring to go in there, never daring quite enough to venture because she knew she'd be lost again.. and as strong as she was, strong enough to beat him, strong enough to be the Prince, when it came down to it...

...was she all that strong? Had she ever been?

"Will you be back?" Utena asked.

"It's all in the envelope." He said, "Everything you need to hear."

"Why don't you stay?" Utena asked.

"Why doesn't anyone?"

With a smile and a look in his eyes like he was the one who was losing something, Touga left Utena standing there, drenched in sweat, aching all over, holding an envelope that held the secrets of the universe.

* * *

Had Utena a stopwatch, she would have timed how long she had sat there, next to the Prince's sword, staring at the envelope.

"Everything I need to hear..."

There was a part of her, louder than the others, repeating a question: what if she wasn't ready to hear what she needed to hear? What if what she needed to hear had been a yes, from him? Or from someone else? What if what she needed to hear was so complex that it wouldn't fit in one tiny envelope, one tiny page?

Utena glanced at the sky. Gun metal grey, she thought, like a rusted blade. Like the rusted blades of a thousand swords, left with nothing to begrudge, nothing to hate – so they had sat, piling up, catching rust and then they had colored the sky above her.

With one swift move, Utena ripped open the envelope.

_I am the Prince now,_ she said with a smile, _I earned this._

* * *

Utena took out the single page, which turned out to be barely larger than a postcard, and felt like she was about to read a declaration of war... or a love letter. She was sure in her heart of hearts that there was no difference whatsoever.

The handwriting was incredibly pretty, but felt somehow generic to her. It was like the piano piece on the radio that followed the show, something familiar yet forgotten long ago.

What Utena needed to hear was simple:

_Come, and we will shine together._

Perplexed, Utena turned the page over, and found a small ticket stub on the other side of it, folded neatly and taped there. Careful not to rip the stub itself, she pulled it free and inspected it. One way. Good for any time at all. One person.

A line caught her attention, printed in neat typeset right at the bottom of the stub.

**Courtesy of Ohtori University Student Council.**

_Huh._

She glanced at the destination.

**Ohtori City.**

Of course it was a declaration of love and a declaration of war. It was like the game they used to play, the revolution game, the Prince game. It was a challenge. Utena recognized the envelope and the letter now, in that she knew she had done this a hundred times before. Touga had come and gone time and again, and many others before him or herself had seen the Convent; but this place was another challenge as well. Like the treacherous path to the playground, the thick trees besieging this place, the winding pathways stretching on seemingly for miles that had always broken her spirit as she walked barefoot through the bare branches, looking for something else, something more.

But now that she was the Prince, wasn't it time to abandon the castle for its illusions, leave the grandeur that was only a trick of the light... and see beyond it?

_It will never be the same, _Utena thought, _there's been a revolution, after all._

* * *

When Utena returned to her room, carrying the sword and the envelope, she turned on the radio out of habit. As if on cue, the familiar voices of the twin, faceless narrators filled the room.

"_Extra! Extra! Extra!"_

"_We've been cancelled! Again! All we have is this week's show, and then it's the curtains for us! We should use the time we have to finish our story, but oh, if only it ended that quickly!"_

"_This just in: the Prince is free at last!"_

"_So little time to say so much! What if I can't make it? So many people I have to thank, so much left in the story to tell, oh, what can I do?"_

"_Headline: Love has conquered everything once again!"_

"_If only they gave us a warning, but nobody was expecting that! How can you expect such a development?"_

"_It's just a radio show, says the man on the street! (And I think he's following me around now, too)"_

"_For those of you who stuck with us, I assure you, we will never give up! We will never give in! If the Prince made it and managed to persevere, we can too!"_

"_We're now reporting live fro- wait, wait. Did you say the Prince made it? Why aren't we covering that?"_

"_Yes, the Prince made it! He's free! That's where we are now, but we've been taken off the air! Haven't you heard?"_

"_**Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard? Haven't you heard the news?"**_

"_I want to thank-"_

"_Cancelled!? Why did nobody tell me!?"_

The piano piece came on, but Utena didn't shut it off. She let it play, and felt the strange knot in her chest ache wonderfully to the music.

* * *

The next morning, for the first time since she had woken up without a name, Utena put on her clothes – all of them. The jacket that resembled his. The torn, mended shoes.

They didn't fit her very well. She was thinner now than she used to be, she saw. The nuns had done a wonderful job of repairing it. The damage inflicted was well-hidden, but missing buttons, torn filigree, and other small scars told her that her clothes were well past their expiration date. But still, the nostalgia embedded into every stitch and every fiber of cloth held it together; the uniform was still very pretty, and very familiar. But her scarred face, her barely-existent hair, her tired eyes gave the impression –expressed the truth- that she had died in it.

_I guess I just didn't know how to properly do that, either. How proper – I don't look like a proper girl, I can't walk like a proper person, and I couldn't die properly._

_Then, I guess, I don't have to worry about that sort of thing._

Utena stuck the ticket stub into the uniform's side pocket, along with the letter. She found a ring on the belt wrapped around the jacket's waist, currently at its narrowest, and she attached the sword to it. She felt more complete somehow, more like a Prince that had died and had seen no reason to stop there.

* * *

She didn't stop to say goodbye. Even thinking about it, she understood then that she had never known exactly how many nuns were there, if any, or even who they were beneath their shadows, but knew that it was too late to learn now. The mundane details of her surroundings kept jumping out at her as she walked, as if she was seeing them for the first time. What she had once thought of as dull walls were rich with cracks, teeming with the ravages of time. The faceless nuns waving at her as she walked past them seemed more radiant, more regal than they ever had, and the doors leading to the courtyard seemed positively majestic, despite the wear and tear marring their surfaces.

With scarred hands, Utena pushed them open and stepped outside. She stood there for a moment, looking around the seemingly endless siege of dead trees, and saw her path. It made her smile. So obvious, the well-worn, well-traveled path leading her heaven – to the playground in decay. One hand on her sword, Utena went through the crooked path once more, and found it much shorter than she remembered. She didn't stop once she reached her heaven. She walked right past the crooked swing set, and the slide surrendered to rust, the caterpillar she had first seen Touga on, and found herself at the edge of heaven: the tree line.

The urge to turn around seemed too strong for a moment, but Utena conceded that maybe, she'd come back to visit one day. Her resolve resurfaced then, as she felt in her heart of hearts that it wouldn't be the same. Nothing would be the same, and there was nothing to do but to brave the forest, to get out of there and never return.

In front of her, the trees stretched on, seemingly into eternity. Utena recalled the note.

_Come, and we will shine together._

"Just wait for me." she said, to nobody in particular.

Utena entered the dead forest and began to make her way through the trees.


	7. Epilogue (Imperfect)

"_**Adolescence Post-Apocalypse"**_

**Epilogue  
****(Do You Still Pretend to Hear Angels Cry?)**

The city was glowing in the near distance. Specks of light cluttered the vague outline of the buildings, painting a new starry sky on the ground to imperfectly mirror the one above. From his vantage point, the chair by the window, he could see the tiny lights of homes he would never visit and lives he would never touch flicker.

He took another sip from the bottle. The glass had been forgotten long ago. It was just a relic now, broken on the carpet, its shards sharp and bloodthirsty. Even though he hadn't taken off his uniform, he felt more like a deserter in that moment than an aristocrat like she had said.

He didn't hear the door open. He didn't hear the no-sound of bare feet as they lightly treaded the carpet. It was only the scent of roses, not too strong but not too faint, and a gentle hand on his head that he even realized she was there.

"The city's beautiful this time of night." She said. Her fingers slid into his hair and she began to play with the strands.

"I sometimes imagine that heaven looks like this." He replied, taking another sip, "Distant, brilliant and eternal. All the angels safe in their boxes. Smiling, always."

"Angels can cry, you know."

"Do you still pretend to hear them when they do?"

Her fingers playing with his hair got rough for a few moments, and then they relaxed again.

"You are angry with me." she said.

"I think you underestimate me sometimes." Touga said, "Just as often as you overestimate me."

"Never." She whispered, her lips close to his ear, "You did what I needed you to do. Don't think I'm not grateful. I promised you the end of the world, and you will have that."

"You put too much trust in her. Yes, she's alive. But is she the Prince..? I don't think so."

Her hand withdrew.

"You issued the challenge." She said. She turned away, stepped over the broken glass, "It's up to her now. She'll decide if she can rise to it."

She got to the door and opened it, which was when Touga spoke.

"And... if she can't?"

He turned to look at her, to read her expression. In the bright light bleeding from the door standing ajar, her ebony skin seemed to glisten, ever-so-slightly, and her dark purple hair, let down, falling onto her shoulders in gentle curls, seemed silken.

But her eyes, unreadable, were two glass orbs - reflecting everything, revealing nothing.

"If she can't," Anthy said, ",then she is not my Utena."

She walked out and closed the door behind her, leaving Touga to the imaginary heaven in the distance, and the last sip at the bottom of his bottle.


End file.
